


Too Close For Comfort

by akraia



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Assault, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akraia/pseuds/akraia
Summary: “It was only a warning.”“From whom?”“I'm making a list.”One of the people on Jack's list decides to take action. Phryne disapproves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> By popular demand (looking at you, whopooh and hue_fue), a full-blown Phryne Being Protective About Jack thing.  
> This is turning out to be longer than expected, so it's probably going to be two parts.

It started with the letters.

Phryne found the first one by chance while reading an autopsy report over Jack's shoulder. Half-hidden by the file they were looking at was a piece of cheap grubby paper, words scrawled on it in black ungainly letters. Something about it caught Phryne's eye, and she snatched it deftly from his desk.

“'You will get what you deserve',” she read aloud, “'dirty piece of copper scum', and some more along those charming lines. Where did this come from?” 

“Someone slid it underneath the station door last night,” Jack said, plucking the note from her hand and putting it back to where it had been, “and I'll thank you to stay out of this particular piece of official police business, Miss Fisher.” 

“That sounds personal rather than official. Was it addressed to you?” 

“It was.”

“Well, do you know who sent it? What are you going to do about it?” 

“No, and nothing. Can we get back to the point now?”

She leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing her arms in front of her chest. The relaxed attitude he was exhibiting didn't strike her as entirely appropriate.

“Someone sending you threatening letters _isn't_ the point?”

Jack sighed and swivelled his chair to face her.

“Look, every policeman gets this kind of thing now and again. Trod on some toes, arrest someone with a vengeful streak, and you get notes shoved through the door about how you're going to get what's coming to you for being a dutiful officer of the law. Those people usually just want to frighten you and blow off some steam.”

“Usually,” Phryne repeated. “What if they decide threatening letters aren't blowing off enough steam?”

“I shall have to endeavour to appear more frightened, then,” said Jack and turned back to the autopsy report. 

After a moment's consideration, Phryne dropped the subject. Jack wasn't taking the note seriously enough for her taste, but she did trust his judgement and his instincts. He hadn't survived in the police force for this length of time because he lacked those things.

That didn't mean she didn't make a comment to Hugh on her way out about watching his inspector's back. It also didn't mean that she wasn't unsettled when she found another note on his doormat when she slept over at his house the following week. She was somewhat mollified when Jack admitted that this did overstep the mark from police business to personal business, and promised to consult his running list of people who might want to give him a scare for possible culprits.

There was no note the following week. Phryne breathed a little more easily.

 

It was a pleasant balmy Thursday evening just before eight o'clock, and Phryne was early for once when she parked her car on a quiet side street just around the corner from City South Police Station. They hadn't managed to see each other all week, Jack having been swamped with work and Phryne unethusiastically involved in organising a charity dinner at Aunt Prudence's, but he had telephoned her this afternoon to ask her if she was free for dinner. She was, and had promised to pick him up to go to a Greek restaurant on Lonsdale Street. They had agreed not to meet in a personal capacity directly at the police station to keep up an appearance of propriety that would protect Jack from the Chief Commissioner's wrath. Not, Phryne suspected, that they were fooling absolutely anyone.

Pleased with herself for being punctual and for the excellent idea of taking the Hispano-Suiza out for a spin on this lovely evening, she lit a cigarette and smoked it in a leisurely fashion while she waited, allowing her thoughts to wander.

Preparations for Aunt Prudence's charity dinner were taking up more of her time than she had anticipated when she had agreed to help with its organisation. Apparently divine forces had determined that everything about it that could possibly go wrong, was bound to go wrong. There were problems with the menu and the seating arrangement. Cook had given his notice last week. The agency couldn't send any staff on this particular date because of a ball at the French embassy. A stray dog had come in from the garden and done its business on the good Persian rug in the parlour, and while trying to remove the stain the new maid had somehow scorched the carpet. Phryne didn't believe in divine intervention, but she was tempted to declare this dinner doomed and have done with it.

She was pulled from her deliberations when, halfway through her cigarette, she saw Jack turn the corner at the far end of the street and walk towards her, briefcase in his hand, his coat draped over his arm. He seemed to be lost in thought and hadn't spotted her yet, and she was already smiling, the joy at seeing him bubbling like cool Champagne through her stomach, when she heard the engine of the motorcycle, and everything started to happen very quickly.

At speed, the motorcycle turned the same corner Jack had just appeared from. On it were two people, faces concealed by goggles and scarves. One of them, the driver, brought the motorcycle to an abrupt halt next to where Jack was walking on the pavement. The other figure leapt off the motorcycle and attacked him.

Momentarily frozen, Phryne could see with terrible clarity the knife glinting in the attacker's hand, the moment Jack's head jolted up when he realised something wasn't right.

The knife moved forward, and Phryne screamed his name.

This appeared to disconcert the attacker, his head turning to look in her direction, which gave Jack the chance to knock the knife out of his hand. There was blood on the blade, Phryne was sure she could see that much, but didn't get a chance to be shocked, because the attacker whipped a club of some sort from his belt and struck at Jack's head with full force. Jack dodged, which caused the club to connect with his forehead instead of his temple, and he dropped.

The attacker jumped back onto the motorcycle, the driver turned it with a violent screech of tyres, and they vanished back into the direction they had come from.

Phryne felt cold right down to her bones. Shock, she thought in a detached sort of way; the feeling was familiar. It always brought back unpleasant memories – of war and violence and sudden loss – but the feeling itself didn't scare her. What did scare her was Jack lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, very alarmingly not moving.

She was on her knees at his side with no recollection of how she had got there, her hands flying over his body, taking in the state of him. The knife had caught his forearm and cut through jacket and shirtsleeve, which were ripped and bloody. Opening the rip further to look at the wound, she judged that it was bleeding a good amount but was relatively shallow, sustained while protecting his torso from the knife. With the help of the trusty dagger in her garter, she ripped a piece of fabric from her slip, wadded it and secured it tightly against the wound with her scarf.

The most pressing medical matter taken care of, she staunched a laceration at his hairline with the handkerchief from his pocket. It was bleeding profusely, as head wounds were wont to do, but didn't look to be very deep.

Other than that, Jack's pulse was fast, but he was breathing and starting to stir by the time she had finished administering first aid. She put her hand on his shoulder to stop him from sitting up, his limbs uncoordinatedly trying to get him upright before his eyes had even opened.

“Stay down. You got a fairly nasty knock on the head.” 

“'s a change,” he mumbled, but obediently lay back down, cradling his injured arm against his chest with a groan. His eyes, when he opened them, had a slightly vacant look, but fixed on her face with a reasonable amount of clarity. Quickly she calculated how long he had been unconscious – three or four minutes, at the most. Not too long, but that didn't mean anything. She made him press the handkerchief to his head wound with his serviceable hand and pulled up his eyelids, one after the other, to check the size of his pupils. Considering the long disuse of her nursing training, it was coming back to her with astonishing speed.

“What's your name?”

“Jack Robinson.”

“Your actual name.” 

“John Samuel Robinson.”

“Follow my finger with your eyes. When is your birthday?” 

“24th September.” 

“What colour are the walls in my bedroom?”

His brow furrowed in concentration.

“Red. -ish. Swirly pattern.” 

Satisfied with his answers and the ability of his eyes to track the movement of her finger, she put down her hand.

“Very well. You'll do for now. But don't think I won't drag you to hospital to have Mac look at you, because that is exactly where you are headed. You can sit up now. _Slowly._ ”

Jack muttered something that sounded like “Yes, matron”, but did as he was told, accepting her arm behind his back for support.

She gave his head a quick inspection, checking for obvious dents or further gashes dripping blood. Her heartbeat slowed a bit at not finding anything but a lump forming at the back of his head, to be expected from the way he had hit the ground.

“How do you feel?” 

Jack was sitting upright but swaying slightly, his eyes screwed shut.

“Sick. Headache. Why does my arm hurt?” 

“Because in addition to knocking you unconscious, your anonymous letter writer _stabbed you in the arm_.”

He winced, maybe because he had remembered the fight, maybe because of the volume of her voice.

“Ah. Yes.”

“You remember,” she said tartly, not trying to hide how angry she was. “Though I suspect he was aiming for something else.”

Jack didn't answer. She looked at him, sitting on the ground with his eyes closed, pale and sweating with shock and pain, and was very much torn between slapping him very hard and embracing him until his ribs cracked. For the moment, she would have to settle for taking him to hospital.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Honestly, Inspector,” said Dr. MacMillan, putting stitches into his head, “I never knew a man so prone to head injury.”

“It's not a talent I'm envied for,” said Jack, trying not to wince. Dr. MacMillan laughed.

“I'd rather you didn't encourage him,” said Phryne.

Jack was conscious of the fact that she was purposefully standing just outside his field of vision. He had noticed, however, that her face was still frozen in the still white mask he had looked up into when he had come round lying on the pavement. He had also noticed that her hands hadn't started shaking until they had arrived at the hospital and she had been able to put the care for his injuries into Dr. MacMillan's hands. Phryne dealt well with pressure. He wondered if it was a natural ability, or if she had simply had to learn along the way.

His own brain hadn't yet fully grasped the danger he had been in tonight, nor the very real possibility of the knife or the club doing him some serious damage. He knew it would hit him eventually, probably during the night. He wasn't looking forward to it.

Dr. MacMillan finished suturing the wound, stuck a plaster over it and settled down for further medical instructions.

“You were fairly lucky, all things considered.”

She nodded at his arm, which had already been cleaned, stitched up, bandaged and put into a sling, and felt like it had red-hot knives stuck in it.

“The knife didn't hit any bones or tendons. The wound should heal up nicely. As for your head, that will hurt for at least a week. Call me immediately if you think it's getting worse instead of better. You may also feel dizzy, nauseous, or like you can't concentrate. I'm prescribing a powder for the pain and a few days of rest.”

She looked at Phryne.

“Tonight, wake him every three or four hours and see if he is able to respond coherently. If he isn't, call me. Otherwise, let him sleep for as long as he likes. Come and see me next week,” she said, turning back to Jack, “so I can take out the stitches in your head and have a look at your arm. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” said Jack, suddenly feeling very tired. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Phryne was silent on the drive home. Jack didn't mind. The movement of the car made his headache worse, so he kept his eyes closed until they reached Wardlow, where they were met by Dorothy Collins, who gave a gasp when she spotted Jack, and Mr. Butler, who saw Phryne and Jack provisioned with whisky, tea, biscuits and sandwiches with a speedy efficiency that was decidedly too much for Jack's spinning, banging head.

He found himself on the settee in the parlour with no clear recollection of how he had got there. Phryne was sitting on a chair opposite, draining her tumbler of whisky in one gulp, and Dot was just setting a gently steaming wash bowl and a stack of face flannels down on the side table. Jack, who was dimly aware that there was still blood on his face and in his hair, attempted to give her a smile in thanks.

“Any news from Hugh?”, asked Phryne.

“Yes, Miss, he telephoned just before you got in. He said,” Dot consulted a slip of paper from the pocket of her cardigan, “that they'd had no luck yet, but were going out to work their way through the list. And that he would call again if there was any more news.”

Phryne nodded and poured herself another whisky.

“Thank you, Dot.”

Dot left them alone. Phryne sipped in silence. Jack leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. The room seemed to be spinning around him, and he still felt sick. He fervently hoped he wasn't actually going to _be_ sick.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard Phryne set down her glass.

“For someone who keeps scolding me for being too reckless,” she said, “you're not very careful yourself, Jack.”

“You _are_ too reckless,” he said automatically, opening his eyes. “And I don't see how I haven't been careful.”

She got up and started pacing the room, something she did when she was really very annoyed.

“Those letters were perfectly unpleasant and quite clear in their threatening intention. But did you think to take them seriously? Oh, no. Of course you didn't, because you are Jack Robinson, hard-boiled Senior Detective Inspector, and taking those things seriously is apparently beneath you.”

Jack rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. Phryne was driving him mad, and the headache wasn't helping.

“Do you know how many letters like that I have got in the last ten years? They would fill the entirety of that dustbin under the desk, had I kept them. How many times have I been assaulted in the street in that time? Never.”

“Conveniently forgetting that time someone tried to run over you with their car.”

“They didn't -”

“And honestly, Jack, how many times _would_ you like to be assaulted in the street before you admit it might be a genuine concern?”

“What should I have done, in your opinion?” His voice was too loud, but he didn't care. “I did think about who might be sending those notes. I did ask around. No one who wasn't currently in prison seemed to be the type for writing them, let alone acting on them. I'll admit, I misjudged the situation, but you have no right scolding me like it was my own fault I was stabbed -”

“I didn't -”

“- when you keep putting yourself into unnecessary danger!”

“Oh, when I do it it's unnecessary danger, but when you do it, it's your bloody job.”

“That's not what I meant, and you -”

“You could have been killed, Jack.”

Her voice, which had risen in volume like his own during the course of the conversation, was suddenly low and tired. She looked tired, too, standing in the middle of the room like she didn't know how she had got there.

“You could have been killed, and I would have had to watch.”

Silence followed. There was nothing Jack could think to say.

After a while, she came over and sat next to him on the settee, moving slowly to give him a chance to object. When he didn't, she dipped one of the face flannels into the wash bowl and started washing the dried blood off his face. The gentleness of the touch made Jack's chest ache, entirely unrelated to his physical state. Colour was slowly returning to her cheeks, but she still looked like she was in need of a stiff drink, of which she'd had at least two by now.

“I'm sorry,” she said finally. “Of course it isn't your fault you got stabbed and hit over the head. It's just that you are the only one at hand to scold right now.”

“I know the impulse.”

She smiled, so briefly he wasn't sure if he had imagined it.

“Yes, I thought you did. I'm just...not used to feeling like this,” she added, bright blue eyes focused on his forehead. _“_ Worrying like this. After we lost Janey, there wasn't really anything left to be afraid of any more. The worst thing had already happened. But today...”

She dabbed at his head for the final time, then dropped the flannel into the wash bowl.

“I had a scare,” she said, giving him a glance as though daring him to laugh at her. He remembered a wrecked motorcar by the side of the road, the dead body of a glamorous woman who liked to drive fast, and shivered.

“I know,” he said softly. “Me too.”

She looked into his eyes, so he could see every bit of her mingled feelings: her love for him, her fear of losing him, and her anger at a world that might dare to take him from her. He wanted to tell her that he understood, all too perfectly, but all he could manage was a small inarticulate sound, lifting his hand to brush it against her cheek. She was still for a moment, her cheek warm against his palm. Then she slipped her arms around him, very mindful of his injuries, and buried her face in his shoulder.

He hugged her with his undamaged arm, closing his eyes to the spinning room. His arm hurt, his head hurt, and he felt unsettled and decidedly the worse for wear, but for the moment, nothing mattered but her body snuggled close against his side and the scent of her hair in his nose.

Eventually, she pulled away and looked at him sternly.

“You,” she said, enunciating very clearly, “are not allowed to get yourself killed. I won't have it.”

“I'll try.”

“Well, try a bit bloody harder,” she said and kissed him, tasting like whisky and strong sweet tea. When she sat up, her features seemed to blur before his eyes, but he could tell she was smiling at him.

“How is your arm?”

“Sore.”

“And your head?”

“Feels like it's about to split.”

She leaned forward and gave his forehead a – very gentle – kiss.

“Solid bone,” he heard her say, “as I've always suspected. And now you are going to bed while there is still a chance you might get there under your own steam. I'm certainly not going to carry you upstairs.”

Her voice seemed to be coming from very far away. Jack smiled.

“Wouldn't be the first time.”

 

 

A week later, Jack was back at work. In the interview room at City South, to be precise, sitting opposite Jimmy Niven, a slight fair-haired man whose face Jack hadn't been able to recall until he had seen him again.

“You think you're very clever, don't you, Mr. Niven,” said Jack, leaning back in his chair. “Those charming letters, clumsily written to divert attention from yourself. Recruiting your childhood mate Tommy for the use of his motorcycle. It's just unfortunate that he kept bragging to every poor sod in every bar in Melbourne about his heroic feat of bashing up a copper.”

Jack got up to walk around the room, so the other man had to crick his neck to look at him, which was of course the entire point.

“You should choose your friends more carefully in future. Or maybe refrain from stabbing police officers altogether. Now tell me, what rankled you while you were in prison? Losing your lucrative business of burgling toffs' houses and selling the loot through your little antiques shop? Or being outsmarted by a dim-witted copper? Whatever it was,” said Jack and leaned against the wall to the right of Niven, “it must have really, really annoyed you.”

At this moment, the door opened and a vision in blue crêpe de chine and white furs steamrollered into the room, bringing with it a waft of French perfume. Jack sighed, but wasn't as surprised as he probably should have been.

“Miss Fisher, if you insist on barging in on my interview uninvited, could you at least knock?”

“Sorry, Jack, won't be a moment,” she said, gave him a bright smile and turned to Jimmy Niven. “Well, so this is the famous Mr. Niven. Though of course we have met before, haven't we? Briefly.”

She looked Niven up and down, obviously not impressed with what she was seeing.

“You look quite different, without that big loud motorcycle and a sharp dangerous knife.”

She turned to casually examining her immaculate white gloves for stains or specks of dust.

“If you ever so much as give Senior Detective Inspector Robinson here a dirty look from across the street, I will find out. And I will make sure that you are sorry.”

Niven smiled. He obviously had no idea what he was in for.

“What are you going to do? Kill me?”

“Much as it would personally please me, but no, I have better things to do with my time than to be arrested for murder. There are other ways to make your little life miserable.”

She put her gloved hands on the table and leaned in, almost as if she wanted to confide a secret. From what he could see from her profile, Jack was exceedingly glad that he had never been the target of a look like that.

“Your mother lives in Brighton, doesn't she? I've heard she hasn't been well. Poor old dear. Doesn't bear thinking about what it would do to her if she were to find out that you spent the last few years in a cosy little prison cell, rather than running a respectable antiques shop like you told her? Quite clever, sending her your letters through a friend outside of prison. But then, you're a man full of brilliant ideas, aren't you?”

Niven had blanched considerably, Jack noted with interest.

“You...you wouldn't...”

“Oh, I would,” said Phryne amiably. “And just to make sure you're not getting any more clever ideas, I'm on my way to her now. Nice little day out. I'll bet if I ask very nicely, she will have lots of sweet stories to tell me about little Jimmy. Though of course, then I'd have to volunteer some stories of my own...”

Jimmy Niven looked just about ready to faint. His hands were gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled.

“You can't tell her! If she knew...it would kill her!”

Phryne shook her head, clicking her tongue.

“Ah, but Mr. Niven. You seem to be operating under the mistaken assumption that I care. If I were you”, she leaned forward just a bit further, so her face was almost level with Niven's, “I'd start volunteering some information.”

Phryne straightened up, turned around and winked at Jack, who stared after her with a mix of dismay and admiration as she breezed out of the room.

 


End file.
